An Artful Design
by Mrs. Twelvetrees
Summary: Will Holmes and Watson be able to catch Professor Moriarty before he catches them?


DISCLAIMER 

All characters from Sherlock Holmes belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. (I'm just borrowing them...)

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_**An Artful Design**_

Of all the cases Sherlock Holmes has solved over the years, there has not been one more exciting than that which I am about to record. The fact that this case was preceded by several months of extreme depression and boredom might have something to do with how I look back on it, and indeed, how I experienced the events at the time. Nevertheless, it was on the 13th of June in the year '85 that a new case finally arrived at 221b Baker Street, the residence of the great Sherlock Holmes and myself.

Holmes and I had just been served breakfast by Mrs Hudson, although I was, as was usual, the only one who actually consumed any of it. As I helped myself to kedgeree and toast, Holmes sat in his armchair with his feet on the seat and his elbows resting on his knees, smoking his pipe. As far as I knew, he had not eaten in days, and I often wondered whether he ate less when he did have a case, or when he did not. A clear, crisp morning light fell through the windows and suddenly I noticed that Holmes had moved his chair to the darkest corner in the room, as he was hardly visible.

'I do wish you would come out of that dreary corner and have some breakfast,' I exclaimed.

Holmes took his pipe out of his mouth and bared his teeth in a mocking grin.

'A human being, Watson, needs light and food only in order to function. As I am evidently not required to function, there is no reason for me to come out and eat.'

The scent of tobacco mixed with opium drifted across the room and triggered the doctorial instincts in me.

'I suppose the smoking is part of your plan to achieve malfunction?'

Holmes let out a short but forceful roar of laughter and threw his head back, making his dishevelled hair fall away from his face. The contours of his aquiline profile stood out dimly against the chair's dark upholstery.

'Watson,' he replied, 'I am aware of the fact that you do not approve of my smoking habits, and therefore do not need to be reminded of your discontent again.'

'It is not healthy,' I uttered automatically, knowing we had already had this conversation numerous times before.

Holmes sniffed disdainfully at this remark, undoubtedly also aware of its intense triteness. He remained silent for several minutes, and folded his sinewy arms around his long, lean legs. After some time, he got up from his chair and dashed over to the window.

'My health, Watson, is not to be considered at the moment,' he cried suddenly, and caused me to drop my sugar in my tea from such a considerable altitude that it made several unpleasant stains on my clean waistcoat.

'Apparently, it does not matter to anyone whether I live or die, so I might as well smoke my pipe and 'snuff it,' as they say.'

I stood up, and for a moment appreciated the unintended pun about the pipe and the snuff, before walking over to the window to stand beside Holmes and gaze upon sunlit Baker Street. I carefully pondered upon the issue of what my reply should be, as I did not wish to upset my friend any further. These lapses between his cases always produced this particular mood in him, and depending on the duration of the interval, he would eventually become impossible to communicate with. I had the feeling we were now on the verge of reaching that stadium and was desperate to find the right thing to say, when Mrs Hudson entered to clear away the breakfast dishes. To my immense relief, she was also carrying a letter.

As though he could smell the paper, Holmes turned around and inconsiderately snatched the letter from Mrs Hudson's hands. As he sat down on the arm of the sofa, examining the unopened envelope with pursed lips and furrowed brow, I apologized to our bewildered landlady and closed the door behind her a minute later. Handing me the letter without looking, he stepped around the room, his forefingers pressed pensively against his thin lips.

'What do you make of it, Watson?' he asked, his back turned toward me.

There was nothing unusual about the paper I was holding in my hands. A perfectly normal postage stamp depicting our Queen, and the address in very neat handwriting. I could not see how one could deduct anything from this ordinary envelope, and yet, when Sherlock Holmes turned to face me, I read in his expression a sense of complete omniscience and triumph.

'I don't make very much of it, I'm afraid, Holmes,' I sighed to his evident delight, as the left corner of his mouth twitched slightly upward at my answer.

'My dear Watson,' he began as I handed the letter back to him, 'have you observed the handwriting on this envelope?'

'Why, certainly.'

'And what can you say about the person who wrote it?'

I examined the envelope again, even more closely this time. I had a few suspicions, but could do no better than to guess.

'Was it a woman who wrote it?'

'Excellent, Watson,' he smiled, 'most definitely a woman, as can be concluded from the perfect curls attached to the capital letters and the roundness of the hoops. And not only a woman, but also a very tidy woman.'

'Indeed,' I assented and, noticing that there was not one single ink stain to be seen, added: 'And am I right in assuming she used blotting paper?'

'Blotting paper, most certainly. So naturally, you have observed the discrepancy here, have you not?'

I stood gaping at the letter Holmes held up against the sunlight, realizing I had no further guesses to make with which to content my friend.

'I'm sorry, Holmes, I don't see it,' I confessed.

'It's perfectly simple, Watson,' he said calmly, 'Judging by the clear handwriting, the person who wrote this is very tidy. The address is written in perfectly straight lines, with no smudges to be detected whatsoever. Note, however, that the person who applied the postage stamp to the envelope is the very opposite of tidy.'

I looked again and noticed this time that the stamp had been placed onto the envelope slightly crookedly, and that the perforated edges were frayed. As I meditated upon this, I suddenly realized we had not opened the envelope yet.

'Holmes, should we not examine the letter itself?'

'In due course, Watson,' he replied, still holding the envelope up to the light and staring at it squintingly, 'for now, it is absolutely essential that we do not read the contents of this letter.'

'But why?'

Holmes pushed the envelope into my hands, and with quick strides moved to the other side of the room, where he turned to face me again. He stood there musing for a while, before replying.

'I shall explain it to you after getting dressed,' he said mysteriously, 'meanwhile, why don't you take another look at that postage stamp?'

He disappeared into the back room in his dressing gown, leaving me by the window, utterly puzzled. What could it possibly be, what could be his reason for deciding not to open this envelope? I pondered and pondered upon the matter, but when Holmes emerged from the back room dressed and shaven, I still had no clue as to why he was so reluctant to find out more about this letter straight away.

'Now, Watson,' he began, 'I shall tell you why this envelope should remain unopened for just a little longer.'

'Please do,' I exclaimed eagerly.

'When examining an object of evidence, one should always, always do it step by step. The second layer should not be considered before the first has been well and truly bereft of all mystery.'

'And by the first layer, I suppose you mean the envelope.'

Holmes sat down at his desk, running his thumbs gently up and down the paper.

'Precisely,' he uttered, 'and there is one thing yet to be noticed by you about it, my dear Watson.'

'I really have no idea, Holmes.'

'Look at the back of the envelope, Watson. It is most likely that te person who put the stamp on, and not the person who wrote the address, also sealed the envelope shut.'

The envelope had indeed been sealed shut in a slightly lopsided manner.

'Having established that,' Holmes gloated, 'I think we may now proceed to the reading of the letter within.'

His slender fingers sought out an equally thin paperknife between the many books, notepads, pens and ink bottles on his desk, and ripped the envelope open with a fast, clean cut. I sat down on the sofa as he revealed and unfolded the letter. After he had quickly perused its contents, he turned to face me and recited wat had been written.

Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes – We have never met, yet I am anxious to ascertain that you do not come to harm. I am writing to inform you of a most malicious plot against yourself. I cannot tell you any specific details through correspondence, as I am afeard someone might read it who is not supposed to. Do not worry, for I am insistent on keeping this an absolute secret, as only I and the villains themselves know about the plot. Therefore, I suggest I call on you at your Baker Street residence on Saturday morning at eleven to discuss this matter further.

Yours sincerely,

Annabelle James

Holmes handed me the letter and I gazed upon it in disbelief. The letter was written in the same handwriting as the address on the envelope. When I looked up again, Holmes was leaning back in his armchair, his newly-lit pipe clenched between his jaws.

'Good heavens, Holmes,' I exclaimed, 'A plot against you! Thank God that this lady found out about it and is prepared to warn you in time!'

His eyes glared at me from that dark corner once more, as he pursed his lips in impatience. I immediately sensed I had just said something incredibly silly.

'Holmes?'

'Watson,' he replied calmly, though obviously immensely irritated, 'do you remember anything we found out about the letter?'

'I remember everything. The address was written by a woman, but the application of the postage stamp and the sealing of the envelope were carried out by someone else. I have also observed that the letter was written by the same woman who wrote the address.'

Holmes grinned as he pressed his fingertips together in front of his pale face.

'And not by the person who put the postage stamp on the envelope and sealed it.'

'Exactly,' I assented.

'That was done by someone else.'

'Evidently.'

'Then why does she write that no one except she herself and the villains knows about this matter?'

This silenced me immediately and caused me to sit on the sofa for several minutes with my mouth open like a guppy fish.

'From this we can deduce,' Holmes went on in a matter-of-fact fashion, 'that this lady is either lying, or she is not. If the former is true, which means that apart from her and the villains, someone else knows about the plot, I cannot see a reason why she would not tell me so. If the latter is true, which it evidently is, it means that the person who sealed the envelope is one of the people involved in the plot.'

At that moment, a hansom cab drew up in the street. As Mrs Hudson's footsteps could be heard downstairs, rushing to open the front door, I looked worriedly at Holmes. Holmes, however, had a broad smile on his face.

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_...to be continued._


End file.
